


Voices from the Dead

by whtbout2ndbrkfst



Series: Alec and Anthony J (A Broadchurch / Good Omens Crossover) [1]
Category: Broadchurch, Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Crossover, Crowley is genderqueer but uses he/him pronouns, Established Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Established Relationship, Everyone Gets A Hug, Everyone Needs A Hug, Hurt/Comfort, No Smut, Panic Attacks, Queer Character, Worried Aziraphale (Good Omens), because it’s easier to make ethereal beings human than the other way around, established alec hardy / ellie miller, past homophobia spoken about, set in the broadchurch universe, supportive ellie miller
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-01-29 18:50:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21414964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whtbout2ndbrkfst/pseuds/whtbout2ndbrkfst
Summary: Alec (Hardy) and Anthony (Crowley) are twins. They have not seen each other in almost 30 years. A timely vacation and an untimely bomb brings them together, but before they can start to mend their relationship, there's a lot of painful history they have to wade through first. And a crime scene investigation. It's not going to be easy but with the support of Aziraphale and Ellie, they just might find that love and family are worth fighting for.
Relationships: Alec Hardy/Ellie Miller, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Alec and Anthony J (A Broadchurch / Good Omens Crossover) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1560010
Comments: 115
Kudos: 333





	1. Vacation in Broadchurch

**Author's Note:**

> This idea has been rolling around in my head for a few weeks, and apparently I like it enough that I'm writing my second ever fanfic for it... the Crossover that exactly no one asked for. It's not beta'd or Brit-picked, so let me know if you see any glaring errors. 
> 
> It doesn't really matter, but in my head, it's set after season 2. 
> 
> The title is from a Broadchurch quote ("Amazing. I love this, the phone engineer who hears voices from the dead."). Spoiler: There are no psychics in this story. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy this crazy ride.

It's a brisk early autumn day and Aziraphale and Crowley are vacationing on the south coast of England, in a small town called Broadchurch to be exact. Aziraphale had never heard of it, but as Crowley showed him photos and waxed on about the beauty of the cliffs and the sea, he was sold instantly. Although they arrived the night before, this is their first day out and about town, and while all Crowley wants to do is find a spot in the sand and listen to the sounds of the waves crashing against the shore while sprawling across his husband, Aziraphale has insisted that they must first check out the main street.

"We're only here for a week, we don't want to miss anything, dear," he'd started his case this morning over breakfast in their hotel room.

"There's nothing to miss Aziraphale," Crowley had responded, "the town is barely 5 kilometers wide and it's the off season."

"Well, we won't know until we ask, will we? There's a news agent and a tourism bureau on the main strip. We can stop there first."

Crowley nodded and smiled at his husband over the top of his tea cup, "Whatever you say, Zira."

He was rewarded by a gleaming smile in return.

Crowley was still thinking about that smile now, two hours later, as they stood in front of a book shop. Aziraphale had already picked up one of each brochure from the tourism bureau and had a lively conversation with the woman, Maggie her name was, who owned the news agents, and gotten recommendations for all the best shops, and food, in town. They were supposedly making their way to the beach now, had been for the past 40 minutes, but Aziraphale was window shopping, and now they stood facing a book shop large enough to rival the one they'd left behind in London.

"Go on angel," he laughed, "I know you can't resist a good book shop."

"Oh, but the beach!" he exclaimed, "i know you so want to go!"

"It's barely half ten; we still have plenty of hours of sunlight, and the rest of the week to laze about. Get a book. Or seven. Just remember you have to bring them on the beach," he insisted, unfazed by their detour. In that moment, Aziraphale was overcome with how much he loved this man and reached up to pull him in for a kiss, and when Crowley leaned into it, he surprised him by dragging it out as long as possible.

"All that for a book, angel?" Crowley gasps as Aziraphale finally let him go.

"You just keep reminding me how much I love you."

If the teens looking on from inside the book shop thought they were overly sentimental, they wisely kept it to themselves.

Crowley blushed, but before he could think to come up with a response, Aziraphale had turned and entered the shop. Taking only a second to compose himself, he followed after, trailing a few feet behind his husband as he compared prices and editions, mostly watching the other people in the shop - the group of teens who had spied them through the window where now gossiping in the comic book section, a young mother with a toddler determined to un-shelve everything within grasp, an elderly gentleman settled in a corner rocking chair with the latest Higgins-Clark thriller, and a few other single patrons idling their way through various sections, one oddly never moving more than a few feet from the front door.

Twenty minutes later, Aziraphale had picked out three novels to purchase and was nattering on about books reprinted with movie adaption covers (he wasn't sure if he hated the idea on principle or appreciated the number of new readers it inspired), when he was cut off by a loud commotion from the front of the shop.

"Oh my god!" Crowley heard one of the teens scream before, a second later, the store was rocked to it's core, book shelves collapsing, books flying, smoke filling the air. It took Crowley a moment to settle in the confusion. _ Was that a bomb? Did the bookstore just explode? _ He was incredulous. _ What the FUCK just happened. _ He cleared his head, trying not to panic, he tested his ability to move, and turned to check on -

"Aziraphale?"

There was no response at first.

"Aziraphale!" So much for not panicking. Crowley was up and moving at lightning speed, tripping on books, and he tried to make his way further down the aisle to where his husband had been standing moments before.

"Aziraphale?!?" he tried one more time, noticing the collapsed wall at the rear of the store, voice rising, trying to hear a response despite the mild ringing in his ears.

"Over here", he made out a strained voice over all the frantic cries going on around him. It came from somewhere to his right. That didn't make sense. He spun on his heel, trying to see clearly through the haze that filled the shop. He spotted a shoe, and following it up the body, his eyes landed on an okay, though slightly worse for the wear, Aziraphale.

"Aziraphale" he breathed, crashing on his knees next to his husband. "What happened? are you alright? Did you - "

"Breathe Crowley. I'm alright."

All the air he didn't know he'd been holding rushed out of Crowley, and he leaned forward to put his forehead against Aziraphale's. "Thank God," he whispered.

"I dove out of the way" said Aziraphale in explanation, "Didn't mean to scare you. Help me get this shelf off my legs, and I'll be right as rain."

Crowley just nodded, not trusting his voice just yet, and moved to do as Aziraphale said. Moving books and rubble out of the way and then lifting the wooden shelving high enough for Aziraphale to scoot out under.

"You sure you're okay?" he asked again, reaching a hand up to Aziraphale's face.

Aziraphale nodded. "Will be."

"You're bleeding," Crowley insisted, not quite touching the gash on his partner's forehead.

"Just a scratch. I'm fine. Let's get out of here. See if everyone else is okay, yeah?"

Crowley wasn't completely convinced, but he nodded his assent, leaned back on his feet, and held out a hand to pull Aziraphale up with him.

The two stood, and in that moment, the rest of the bookstore came rushing back in. The shocked patrons, the panicking teens, the old man in the rocking chair who was now sprawled across the floor struggling to get up, the sales assistant who looked like a deer in headlights, the screaming toddler.

Fuck. The screaming toddler.

It was all Crowley could focus on. The crying. He took a step forward. Aziraphale grabbed his hand, "Crowley," but it sounded like it was coming from miles away. "Crowley," he tried again to no avail. Crowley's world had narrowed down to just himself and the hysterical child. He shook Aziraphale's hand loose and rounded the aisle to see the source of the commotion.

Blood.

So much blood.

It was all Crowley could see.

That and the small child sitting in the pool of it.

"No" he croaked, immediately dizzy, and reaching out for support. Aziraphale was there with a hand on Crowley's back and another squeezing his should. "It's okay Crowley. She's not injured. It's not her blood. Look."

But it was too late. Crowley was already a victim to his own worst memories. His breaths came quickly as he lost his ability to stand. Aziraphale could do nothing but attempt to guide his ungainly descent to the floor.

"You're fine, I'm fine, the child is fine. It''s not their blood. We're in England. You're fine. We're all fine. Breathe. Just breathe. The kid is fine," he keeps up the incessant chatter that's falling on deaf ears.

He grabs Crowley's face softly in his hands. "Breathe, Crowley. Come back to me, dear. You're alright. Crowley, please." Crowley's breaths were beginning to slow. "That's it. Nice and steady. We're in Broadchurch. England. Small mishap in a book shop. Everyone's alright. You're doing great."

Aziraphale is about to suggest moving out of the bookshop again when a kind police officer reaches them, out of breath. It can't have been more than five minutes since the initial explosion. She must have ran.

"I'm D.S. Ellie Miller, are you alright?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so glad you're all enjoying this; I didn't know if there would be an audience for this crossover, and apparently there is. Apologies for any and all Americanisms. Enjoy part 2!

D.S. Miller crouches down by the two men to confirm they’re okay. 

“If you’re up to it, we need to move out of here,” she addresses the blonde haired man; the other has yet to look up, head tucked between his knees. “Other police have just arrived and medical is on it’s way.” She’s not a hundred percent sure what happened here, but if she had to guess she’d say a panic attack. She doesn’t want to rush them, but until they can insure the place is secure and not at risk of further collapse, it’s best to move as many people as possible out of the bomb site.

"Is he alright? Do you need help?," she presses.

"Panic attack,” responds Aziraphale solemnly, confirming her suspicions.

Ellie sympathizes, reaches out, then hesitates. "Can I touch him?" she asks, waiting for Aziraphale's nod before she touches Crowley's knee, "Sir,? You're alright. Your friend here and I are going to help you, okay?”

There’s no response.

“Can you nod if you understand?"

The gentleman lets out a long suffering sigh and looks up and Ellie's heart stops. He looks exactly like Alec. Exactly. She looks quickly between the two men, a hundred questions forming in her mind, and has to use every ounce of professional control she has to not let her curiosity get the better of her and ask a zillion questions, but the only thought running through her mind is what the fuck!?. 

Aziraphale must notice something in her expression because he straightens up suddenly, looking wary, forming unasked questions of his own. But now is not the time, so she directs him to grab his friend's arm and put it over his shoulder.

"Husband", he corrects quietly while following her directions. She nods to show she heard, puts his other arm around her own shoulders and says, "Okay, up on three" and counts aloud, not quite able to tear her eyes away from this strangers face that looks so incredibly similar to the one she knows.

There are slight differences sure. He wears his hair long and pulled back in a ribbon, keeps his face clean shaven, and from this close she can see a small tattoo near his right ear. And of course, those eyes; she could never miss those eyes: a light amber color, hauntingly beautiful, and full of more emotion that any pair of eyes should have any right to hold. A person could drown in them if they weren't careful. But despite these differences the face is still undeniable Alec's at its core. She's woken up next to it enough times over these last few months to feel confident in knowing its intricacies intimately. 

But Alec seldom talks about his family, has never mentioned a brother, has certainly never mentioned a twin, and that's clearly what this is, a human double with different eyes. 

They get outside, but Ellie barely remembers making the journey through the debris, her mind a million miles away, shifting through questions, theories. The blonde haired man on the other side catches her attention with a tap on the shoulder; she wonders if he'd said her name while she was lost in thought. She shakes her head and focuses. He takes control of the situation, nodding towards a bench on the other side of the road, and the trio slowly make their way across. The man between them slowly comes back to himself and offers more assistance, changing their strange dragging walk to a more normal gait. 

Settled on the bench, Ellie has no reason to hover. She knows this pair has it under control. The protective way the shorter one has settled in front of his husband leaves her no doubt about that. And she knows she has to get back inside to help other victims of this disastrous crime, but she can't help but linger.

"Are you okay?" she asks again.

"Fine now," says the red haired man, and his husband nods his assent.

"You're bleeding,'' she says, needlessly, unwilling to walk way from this unknown piece of her partner’s history. She’s unable to take her eyes off Alec's double, but her words are clearly directed towards the other man.

"I know," he sighs, squeezing his husband’s shoulder, "I'll get it looked at."

"Be sure you do. Ambulances are pulling up now. Make sure they give you both a once over."

"He will," the red haired man responds before the other can. "I'll see to it." Now that he’s regained his composure she can tell this man is a force to be reckoned with all of his own.

Ellie nods, torn between staying, asking, overseeing their care, and doing her job. The call to help, to rope off the area, to protect the crime scene is stronger, but only just. She turns away reluctantly, but before she goes, "Stick around," she calls over shoulder, "We'll want to schedule a time to take a statement."

The couple nods, and she goes. Back towards the smoke, the debris, the crying patrons. Back to being D.S. Miller for at least a few more hours. 

\----

The D.S. hasn’t even made it back inside before medical arrives moments later. The first pair tend to the eldery gentleman who had been nearest the explosion and the next make their way into the remains of the shop to make sure any remaining patrons are okay, but it isn’t long before a middle aged EMT is making their way to Aziraphale and Crowley.

She smiles at them, “you alright?” she asks while still walking over.

“Fi -” starts Aziraphale before he’s cut off by Crowley.

“My husband has a gash in his forehead. He needs stitches. And he was trapped when the bookshelves originally came down. You should check his stomach and legs for bruising.”

The EMT nods to confirm her understanding. “Can you move to the ambulance?” she questions.

“I don’t think that’s - ”

“It’s necessary,” the woman and Crowley say at the same time. 

Crowley smiles. “Told you, angel.”

“It is” insists the EMT. “Won’t take too long. We can put in stitches here and do a quick check for any internal injuries and bruising. You won’t have to go to hospital unless we notice something out of the ordinary.”

Aziraphale nods, knowing when he’s been defeated, but he can’t resist rolling his eyes at Crowley who has the gall to look incredibly smug despite the concern radiating in his eyes. 

A minute later Aziraphale is sitting in the back of the ambulance, being the best patient he can be, answering her questions, and attempting to sit still as she numbs the area around the gash on his forehead before stitching him up. Crowley seems fine after his panic attack and Aziraphale lets himself be distracted, chatting with the kind woman about her favorite restaurants in town.

It’s while Aziraphale’s attention is caught that the toddler from the bookshop is carried out, still covered in blood. Aziraphale likes to think that if he had been sitting next to Crowley, or if he hadn’t been distracted by their conversation, that the outcome would have been different, but as it stands, he’s not next to Crowley, and he is distracted, and Aziraphale only catches on in time to see Crowley go ghostly white.

“Crow-” he starts, but it’s too late, and all he sees is his husband mouth, “Not the kids.” before he turns and makes a run for it, a black blur amidst the confusion.

"Crowley!" he shouts, and stands to follow, but his attempts are thwarted by the well-meaning EMT pushing him back inside the back of the ambulance. "Just another minute, sir. Let me finish here," she insists, and by the time Aziraphale has disentangled himself from the situation, there’s a very disgruntled EMT and Crowley is out of sight.


	3. Ashes of the Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ellie talks to Alec; the twins' childhood emerges.

After leaving the crime scene, Ellie knows she has to have a conversation with Alec. She texts Lucy to see if she minds picking up Fred from daycare, and texts Tom to let him know he’ll be home alone after school, but there’s leftovers in the fridge and pizza in the freezer when he’s hungry.

It’s just gone three when she finds herself knocking on the door of Alec’s seaside flat. He takes one look at her appearance and ushers her inside, “You alright?” he asks, concern in his voice. She knows he knows where she’s been all day and admired his restraint in staying away on his day off.

“Yeah, good, SOCO’s all over the scene now so I’m off the rest of the afternoon," she waves him off.

“Any leads from -” Alec starts, but Ellie cuts him off, not wanting to get distracted by going over the details of the crime scene.

“You have a brother,” she blurts out, partially a question, partially accusatory.

He’s silent for a moment, and then, “I did.”

“No, you do. Just cause you decided to write your family off, doesn’t mean he doesn’t exist,” she responds hotly, worked up over his continued secrecy around his past.

“No, Ellie, _I did_. He’s dead... What's this about anyway?”

Ellie stops, pauses. Alec seems genuinely lost; completely sincere in his belief. It’s not at all the answer she expected.

She blows out a long breath, not sure how exactly to say this, but, “Alec... he’s not, I swear.” And then as he begins to shake his head, “I met him.”

“He committed suicide,” he refutes, decades old pain filling his voice.

She’s shaking her head, knows what she saw. “He didn’t. I’m telling you. He’s here. I swear. I saw him.” She knows she’s rambling, but needs him to believe her. “He looks exactly like you, except his eyes are like a -”  
“A demon’s”, Alec interjects.  
“A tiger’s,” she finishes at the same time.

“What?!” gasps Ellie, “Alec!”. She pushes him away, offended he would say something so horrible about his brother.

He shudders, blushes, stammers, seems entirely lost for words, as though his entire world view has been upended, “A, a tiger?” he finally questions meekly.

She decides to let it go, for now at least, knowing there’s more to this story. “Yeah,” she cautions, confused now; who knew eye color could be such dangerous territory. “Beautiful, amber, hauntingly emotive eyes?”

“Yeah” whispers Alec.  
“Yeah” agrees Ellie.

They’re both silent for a minute. Her lost in his confusion, and him just... lost. He’s nestled his head in her neck, seemingly drawing strength from her presence.

“You really thought he was dead?” she has to confirm one more time, already knowing the answer.

Alec nods. “I have his _ ashes _. They're in the cupboard.”

\---

Ten minutes later they’re seated on the couch, a cup of tea in each of their hands. Alec had denied wanting any, but making it had soothed Ellie’s frazzled nerves and helped clear her mind. She puts her tea off to the side after taking a sip and grabs Alec’s hand hoping to provide comfort. He's not looking at her and she’s not sure how to proceed from here and is hoping he’ll take the lead on the impending conversation.

The silence stretches on, not quite uncomfortable, but by no means peaceful either. After a few moments, Alec drains the rest of his tea, puts the cup down, and stares resolutely at the floor.

“His name was - is, I suppose - Anthony,” he begins.

And once he starts talking, he can’t stop, their backstory pours out of him like a waterfall: Abusive father. Emotionally unstable superstitious mother. Twins pitted against each other from an early age as the embodiment of good and evil. Anthony’s eyes were used against him.

“It took me far too long to realize he wasn’t actually possessed by a demon,” he admits softly, still refusing to make eye contact with anything other than the floorboards.

“When we were 10, Anthony called the cops on my father. He’d been particularly rough with me that evening, almost broke my arm, and I guess Anthony decided enough was enough and he wasn’t going to stand by and let it happen any more. The cops came, dragged him away, and we never saw him again.”

Ellie runs a soothing hand down his leg and squeezes Alec’s knee, reminding him that she’s there, that she’s not leaving, that this is all in the past.

He takes a deep breath and continues, determined to get the whole story out now that he’s begun. “Once dad was gone, it was actually better for awhile, kind of good actually. We were a broken family, but a family. Mom was distant, still superstitious, occasionally angry, occasionally falling back on old habits of calling him cursed or possessed, but _ we _ were good, the two of us.

“At least for awhile. But then,” he blows out a gust of air, “I dunno, our carefully constructed pretend happy family came crashing down. Anthony is gay, or bi, or something, I don’t know. We didn’t have the words for it then and I don’t know what label he’d want to use now, if any. I begged him to keep it quiet. To hide who he was. It scared me, that part of him. But he wanted to wear dresses and eyeliner and bows in his hair. Date girls AND boys. I was so scared and so confused, and he must have been even more scared and confused, but he wasn’t one to apologize for who he was."

Something in that moment changes, and Alec’s voice goes from soft and sad to hard and angry. “I guess after years of being told you were possessed by a demon by your own mother, being hated for loving just seemed par for the course.”

“So he was undeniably Anthony. Flaunting it. Angry and proud. But mum wouldn’t have it. Warned him off the first time few times he mentioned it, tried to ship him off to some christian camp for “help”, but Anthony wouldn’t have it. The more she punished him, the more he rebelled. Kept sticking his neck out further and further until he got caught making out with a boy on the rugby pitch and all hell broke loose. Mum called him the devil to his face and kicked him out. We were only 14 years old.”

“I’m ashamed to say this,” he adds slowly, “but as much as I loved him, I wasn’t entirely convinced she was wrong.”

She wraps her arms around his shoulders. “It’s okay,” she tries to console him.

“No it’s not!” He yells, ripping himself out of her embrace, standing, and pacing the floor, “It’s not okay! He was my own brother, my twin, and I believed that he was evil; brainwashed to think he was demonic, _ corrupting me _,” he spits out the last words. “They fed me horseshit, and I swallowed it like the good son she wanted me to be”.

“You didn’t know,” Ellie wants to comfort him, mind reeling, “you were still a child.” She’s holding it together by sheer force of will simply because one of them had to.

“_He _ knew. He _ always _ knew. He was so much better than me.”

This seems to drain the fight out of him, so Ellie pulls him back onto the couch in an attempt to control his downward spiral. “Let it out,” she murmurs, “let it out.”

When he’s calmed a bit, she runs her fingers through his hair.

“Alec,” she starts, not sure if she should push.

“Yeah?”

“Um … It’s just, uh, I know you thought… I mean, he ran away but, um...” she trails off, not sure how to word her question without rekindling his ire.

“I thought he was dead because she told me he was dead,” he answers the question without her voicing it, his voice flat.

“Jesus” Ellie whispers; she can’t even imagine how fucked up a mother would have to be to fabricate the death of one son to fool the other.

“A few months after she kicked him out I became obsessed with finding him. To help him, to cure him, I don’t know. I just know that I missed him like nothing else and all I could think about was getting my brother back. I didn’t have a lot of resources, but I started talking to homeless shelters, churches, the police. She didn’t like that at all. But I wouldn’t stop. I was on a mission. I missed him, and no matter what she’d told me, right or wrong, cursed or not, I wanted him back.”

“I guess … I guess, when she couldn’t convince me to stop looking on my own, she killed him off,” Alec blows out a gust of air. “Not literally, but figuratively,” he amends. He’d just pieced this bit together while drinking tea, but he’s confident that he’s right. “If he was dead, my search would end. So he died.”

“She said it was a suicide,” he starts crying again, softly this time, shedding decades old tears for a brother he no longer has to mourn. She holds him tightly, hoping her presence is helping to soothe his anguish. She repeats soft nonsense to him as he calms, rubs soft circles into his back.

“We held a service,” he whimpers. “I kept the ashes”.

There’s nothing Ellie can say to make this better, so she doesn’t try. She just holds him and rocks him and hopes that everything will look better in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHHHhhhh Sorry Crowley! (totally not sorry)
> 
> Getting the characters to talk about back story is harder than I thought it would be, BUT if the characters do what I want them to do and follow my outline you'll get a hint about Crowley's ptsd next chapter...
> 
> Also, I've already decided there will be a sequel


	4. His name is Crowley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale comes into the station to give his statement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took me longer to get this chapter up; I somehow ended up with a rough draft of the rest of the story, but had to come back and write this chapter to bridge the two halves. 
> 
> Thank you for all your incredibly kind comments; I hope you continue to enjoy it!

The next morning, Alec wakes slowly.

The first thing he realizes is that he’s much warmer than usual, the second is that this is not his bed. It takes a moment for his brain to come online and tell him that this is Ellie’s bed, and also that it is Ellie’s body currently acting as both quilt and personal space heater, wrapped around him so tightly, he couldn’t disentangle himself even if he was inclined.

For a few moments, those brief moments between sleep and true awareness, Alec is more content than he can ever remember being.

Then it all comes back to him: last night’s confrontation, his confession, his whole childhood poured out from him, his soul laid bare. He’s instantly awake, and with that awareness he can tell his eyes are still puffy from all the crying. He feels like shit.

To be honest, he doesn’t remember leaving his flat, doesn’t remember crawling into Ellie’s bed, doesn’t remember falling asleep wrapped up in her arms; it’s all hazy.

But he does remember everything that came before it, and although he’s not eager to speed up time until that conversation continues, and he _ knows _ it’ll be continued, he also can’t lie here anymore pretending to sleep. He turns in her embrace, snuggling somehow even closer, tucking his head under her chin and inserting his right arm under hers.

“Morning,” Ellie whispers.

“Morning,” he hums back.

“Are you okay?,” she questions, wincing a bit at the stupidity of the question.

“Fine,” he attempts to assure her.

“Alec -”

He tenses at the use of his name.

“Wha-”

“Don’t call me that,” he growls.

She raises an eyebrow he can’t see and waits for him to explain his thoughts.

“Not now. It’s not. It’s ... “ he takes a deep breath, “It was always Anthony and Alec. Alec and Anthony. I just… I can’t…”

She pauses, rubbing careful hands up and down his spine. “Well I’m not going back to calling you Hardy,” she finally manages, “Or Sir.”

He mumbles something incoherent, but it doesn’t sound like assent.

“We’ll figure it out,” Ellie sighs, pushing him away a little so she can see his face. He grumbles his discontent. “No, listen, maybe this can be a healing moment for you. Let’s talk to him and his husband, get to know them as more than witnesses, more than mysterious haunted figures from your past.”

That catches Alec’s attention immediately, and he pulls back even further in his surprise. “Husband??” he asks incredulously.

She cringes, realizing she never got around to telling him anything about yesterday’s crime scene or the aftermath; had just bombarded him with ‘You have a brother’. Not her smoothest moment in retrospect.

“Yeah … Come on, get up. Fred will be waking up any moment, and I’ll explain everything over breakfast.”

\---

After discussing their next steps on the way to the office, Ellie agrees that she’ll be the one to call the number collected at the scene for Aziraphale and Crowley. After all, she is the one who met them yesterday, and Alec does have a point that there’s far better ways to introduce himself than simply saying ‘Hello, this is D.I. Alec Hardy’ on the phone and waiting for the fallout.

She looks up the info they left with one of the officers, raises an eyebrow at the name Aziraphale and dials. Aziraphale answers after the second ring, and although polite he seems a bit distracted. She introduces herself and he remembers her from the day before. “I assume you want me to come down to the station and give my statement?” he asks, getting right to the point, “It’s just, uh, Crowley’s not here at the moment.”

From the statement and the tone of his voice, she puts two things together: One, Anthony goes by Crowley now, and two, it doesn’t take a genius to realize he means more than stepping out of the room to grab a coffee or the morning paper. She files away the first piece of information for later, and focuses on the second. It was a turn she didn’t see this conversation taking. “What do you mean he’s not there?,” she asks.

“He ran, yesterday, after the explosion. He was upset and he ran. I, uh, I’ve called him a few times, but he’s not answering yet."

A million questions run through her head, unsure what to ask next.

“He’s been through a lot,” Aziraphale defends, mistaking her silence for something accusatory.

“No, no, I know, that’s fine,” she stammers, flustered, feeling wrong-footed and unsure how this relatively simple dialog has gotten so far away from her. Hardy is giving her a weird look now, trying to follow the conversation from across the office without looking like he’s eavesdropping on every word she says. “Um,” she pulls herself together, “Can you come in later this morning? We’d love to get your prints and your statement.”

He agrees, and she hangs up, and waves Hardy over. “His name is Aziraphale, and he’ll be here in about an hour," she informs him. "Anthony, who goes by Crowley apparently, is not there. Apparently he ran from the scene and no one has seen him since.”

Hardy processes that for a minute, nods, “Should we treat that as suspicious? Him running.” He’s slipped into full D.I. mode, ignoring any of the personal info relayed, but she sighs and lets him.

“Don’t think we should jump to any conclusions. Let’s talk to the husband. And in the meantime, go harass SOCO and see when we’re going to know anything about the explosion itself.”

Forty minutes later, Hardy is back, looming over her desk. From the look on his face, she’s glad she sent him off to another department to work out his frustrations, although she does feel a little bad about it.

He brings up what’s clearly been eating at him all morning, “How do I explain it to him, Miller?”

“Explain what?”

“Who I am! Why I have the same face as his husband! Where I’ve been for the last 30 something years!” he starts in an angry whisper, but is shouting by the end of it.

“I dunno,” she answers honestly. “It’s not like he won’t notice you have the exact same face the second he walks in the door. He must know Anthony has a brother; they’re married,” she says, and then adds, “He doesn’t think YOUR dead, does he?”

“No. I mean, I don't know, he, I..." he takes a breath, "no, no reason to anyway.”

“Well, that’s a start,” she offers hopefully.

Alec looks anything but relieved. “He must hate me.”

\----------

Miller meets Aziraphale in the hallway to escort him to the interview room.

“D.S. Ellie Miller,” she reminds him, shaking his hand. “My partner and I just have a few questions for you,” she says leading the way, “but before we go in, I have to come clean about something.”

He stops, surprised by the non sequitur, squints his eyes as though appraising her, “Yes?”

“My partner is D.I. Alec Hardy,” she says simply, and judging by the sharp intake of breath and straightening of his spine, Aziraphale knows exactly who that is.

“I’m sorry,” she apologizes immediately, watching his face go through a myriad of emotions - fear, anger, grief, confusion, betrayal. "They look alike, you see, so I recognized the resemblance immediately yesterday, but I didn’t know the whole story and,”

“That’s why you paused.”

“What?”

“Yesterday, at the scene, when you were coaxing him out of the shop, that’s why you paused.”

He’s more observant than she gave him credit for. “Yes,” she admits. “I was pissed at Alec." "Hardy,” she corrects, “for not telling me he had a brother.”

“I see,” says Aziraphale icily, although he clearly doesn’t.

“D.I. Hardy is my romantic partner as well as my work partner. We’ve known each other for almost two years and have been dating for about 3 months and I was mad that he was still being so secretive about his family. I thought we were past that.”

“And what changed?”

“What?”

“You were mad about him keeping secrets yesterday, and now you sound as if it’s all been forgiven. You’re more concerned about my reaction, and you’re hoping I’ll play nice. What changed?”

She thinks for a moment, unsure how much of Alec’s anguish she should be sharing with this stranger, a stranger who is also a witness to the crime they have yet to solve. She decides to be honest, “He thought he was dead.” She feels more than sees Aziraphale recoil from her statement.

To ensure they’re all on the same page about who was at fault, she adds, “Their mother told him his brother was dead.”

\---------

When Aziraphale walks into the questioning room, he walks in as though he’s prepared for battle. Though, if he expected a confrontation, he’d have been sorely disappointed.

D.I. Hardy is collapsed in the corner seat next to the wall. He looks haggard and tired and scared, but when he raises his eyes to meet Aziraphale’s there’s a deep warmth there, a longing, and Aziraphale knows in his gut that this man is not his enemy. He relaxes slightly, holds out his hand, “I’m Aziraphale Crowley; I believe I married your brother.”

Hardy returns the handshake and the introduction, and asks Aziraphale to take the seat across the table. They're both staring at each other, gaining as much information as they can without saying a single thing. The introduction out of the way, neither of them know how to proceed; they have hundreds of questions, but this is technically a police interview.

Miller clears her throat, causing both of them to look at her, and takes the lead. Aziraphale gives his account of the previous morning. He’s not very observant to be honest; he’d been so caught up in the books, he didn’t really notice the other patrons of the shop or any suspicious behavior. When they’re done pulling as much information from him as possible, he asks after the others, genuinely devastated to learn that two had died in the explosion, and apologizes he hadn’t been more helpful in the moment.

All in all, it’s a quick and straightforward interview.

Hardy, who hasn’t said a word since his initial introduction reaches over to turn off the tape. “Can we ask about Anthony?,” he asks, not quite making eye-contact with Aziraphale.

“He goes by Crowley,” provides Aziraphale, not answering the question.

“Right... Can we ask about Crowley?,” Hardy amends, apologetic.

“It’s our last name,” offers Aziraphale, and wanting to be perfectly clear, he adds, “He picked it. Had been using it for ages actually. But when we got married, it made sense. Aziraphale Fell was a horrible name, so I was more than happy to change mine, and you can imagine how he felt about Hardy.” He adds the last bit with a pointed look at Alec.

“But Crowley??” Alec can’t help himself. Ellie glares at him; this is not how to make a good first impression.

“Ah, Bit of a joke, you see. Picked it because of Aleister Crowley to be contrary.” Aziraphale seems both proud of and amused by this fact.

“The satanist??”

“The occultist,” Aziraphale corrects.

Alec can’t help but laugh, “The mad bastard!”

Aziraphale gives him his first genuine smile. “Precisely.”

The ice sufficiently broken, the conversation flows freely. Alec and Ellie learn about the book shop in London, Crowley’s job as an interior designer, and the kids the couple tutors on weekends (the Them they call themselves). Aziraphale learns how the two detectives met, about life in Broadchurch, about their kids (not yet one cohesive family, but getting there). They stick to light topics and the exchange is lively and friendly.

When there’s a lull in the conversation, Alec asks, “Should we be concerned that he’s disappeared?”

Aziraphale is immediately back on the defensive, “You can’t think he was responsible! He was right next to me the whole time I swear. He wouldn’t...”

“No, no, no,” Ellie cuts him off swiftly denying that’s what they were asking although they _ had _ discussed it as being suspicious, “He meant, should we be worried _about _ him. Send someone out to find him? Put out an APB?”

“Oh. No, it shouldn’t be necessary. Probably only cause him to dig in deeper if he knew the police were looking for him, knowing him” he sighs. “Besides, he knows what he’s doing out there; lived on the streets long enough that he’s more comfortable there then he is almost anywhere else.”

“About that,” asks Ellie cautiously, willing to put words to what she knows Alec is dying to know, but unwilling to make himself ask, “Can you tell us? Will you tell us?”

Aziraphale pauses to consider them for a moment.

“Please” whispers Alec, serious again. He needs this; needs to know the brother he abandoned and assumed dead all these years.

Aziraphale must see the truth in his face and acquiesces. “You know the beginning,” he states, protective, not sure how much he trusts this figure from Crowley’s past, no matter how sincere he seems or how genuinely kind his partner has been.

Alec nods his assent, “Yeah”, he admits, quiet, ashamed. Ellie reaches out under the table and grabs his hand. He squeezes it, thankful for the small act of comfort.

“So you already know his dad was an abusive dick and his mother was a superstitious freak and a homophobe. You know he got kicked out at 14 for kissing a boy.”

Alec nods.

Steel enters Aziraphale’s voice as he runs down the unfortunate history of his partner, and Alec can’t help but lean away from it. “He lived rough for a few years. In and out of homeless centers across London. Eventually had a child with a woman he met on the streets. They were young: her 20, him 19. It broke her, but it forced him to clean up his act. Got himself a job, a place to stay, poured everything into being there for his daughter.”

“That’s when he got into interior design. He was a natural, and the business took off relatively quickly, but it still took a lot out of him. He put all his time and energy into his business and his daughter, like they were the only things that existed. It wasn’t healthy, but it’s what he thought he had to do to survive and be a good parent."

“He started off in London, but he lived in Rome and New York and Florida for a time as well, became known for high end modern pieces. Maybe you’ve seen his work?,” he pauses the story to inquire. “He works under the name Anthony J. Only time he ever uses his given name to be honest.”

Alec is shaking his head no, but Ellie nods, she’s heard of it. “I’ve seen some of his pieces; they’re beautiful.”

Aziraphale nods, smiling, “they are.”

It appears that Aziraphale is content to let the story end here, but they know he’s holding back.

“But Aziraphale… what happened? Where’s his daughter now? She’s not here with you, is she? Why did Crowley run yesterday?” Alec asks, not leaving any time to answer the first question before moving onto the next, already dreading the response.

Aziraphale glares hard at the two of them, “She’s dead,” he states bluntly, confirming what Alec had suspected, but had been vehemently denying. He is devastated, both for his brother and the niece he’ll never meet.

“How?” Ellie starts to ask, unable to help herself.

“It’s not my story to tell,” Aziraphale says simply. “I wasn’t there. I didn’t even know him yet,” he adds shaking his head. “I only know what he’s shared with me, and as you can imagine he doesn’t like talking about it.”

The detectives immediately accept this answer, nodding, processing.

“He ran when I carried the child out yesterday. He saw her screaming and ran,” Ellie pieces together.

“Yes,” confirms Aziraphale. It’s all he’s willing to add.

They all sit in silence a moment, soaking in the new uncomfortable information.

Alec breaks it. “What was her name?,” he asks softly.

Aziraphale considers a moment before answering. “Kate.”

“Kate,” Alec whispers reverently, “Kate.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is Crowley-centric! (Maybe I'll actually let him meet Alec and get all 4 of them in the same room?) I hope to have it up Thursday or Friday.
> 
> Also, once Alec recoiled from the use of his name, Ellie just avoided calling him anything to his face for the rest of the day, so maybe Hardy had a point when he went on that rant about names in Season 1 [ "I mean, if you look at a person, I look at you, you know I’m talking to you. I don’t need to say your name three times to congratulate myself on remembering it, to create some sort of false intimacy."]


	5. Crowley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley has a talk with himself; he's not very nice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is different from all the others in that 90% of it takes place in Crowley's head as he talks to himself. I tried to show that with italics and quotes and a lot of first person, but if it's confusing please let me know.

Crowley finds himself on a park bench exhausted, chilly, and absolutely bloody starving. He also has a few questions and wishes, oh dear god he wishes, he could just shut his entire brain off for a minute and focus on the important things, namely: where he is, how he got here, and how he's getting back. He doesn’t remember walking, well he assumes he walked anyway, to wherever “here” is, and he’s ticked off, mostly at himself for being, in his words, utterly ridiculous. '

_I can’t believe I'm so stupid _, he berates himself for at least the eighteenth time that morning.

_Why did I run? First a panic attack and then I ran clear out of town. And now I'm where, huh? Don’t even know where I am. Brilliant. _

After a bit of wandering, he manages to spot the name of the town on the side of a bus stop. West Coker. Has absolutely no idea where that is, certainly doesn’t remember passing it on their drive in from London. He pulls his phone out. Dead. _Course it bloody is. Aziraphale must be panicked.... No, can’t dwell on that now; no point. Stupid. Should have thought of that last night before sleeping rough, better yet, should have thought of that before pulling a runner and ending up in wherever the fuck West Coker is,_ he thinks with a sneer.

He spies a bakery a little ways up the road, supposes he’ll stop inside and attempt to solve two problems at once: Breakfast and directions. _Maybe also get a pastry for Aziraphale, Zira loves pastries. Would be a good apology. Not that a pastry makes up for doing a runner. Fuck, I’m an idiot. Don’t even know why he puts up with me and all my drama. Who runs, who abandons their husband, their bleeding husband, at a crime scene?? Who does that! Me! That’s who! _

He’s pacing now, and snarling, if he could wear a whole in the concrete from walking, there’d be a 10 meter trail marking his movement. He really really wishes he had his sunglasses right now; he craves the layer of protection.

“UGH!” he screams in frustration, pulling his hair. Everyone on his side of the sidewalk has moved to the other side of the street, giving him a wide berth. He’s getting wary looks from the shop owners. _She wasn’t even the same age as Kate, _ he futilely reminds himself. _ Kate was seven; this was a toddler; and now we're back on that topic again. dangerous road. What is WRONG with me? It’s been twenty years! _ _Jesus fuck, it’s been 20 years. And he still can’t handle blood around children. And the screaming, _ he shudders. _Pull yourself together! Make a plan! Now._

He forcefully and deliberately removes his hands from his hair, sticks them in his pocket to curb his instinct to do it again. “‘Scuse me,” he manages as a young woman passes by. She may have missed his frantic pacing and frustrated scream from a few minutes prior, but she takes one look at his rumpled appearance and bloodshot eyes and draws all the wrong conclusions. “Fuck off,” she says, hurrying along her way, leaving him standing there.

“Fuck off” he repeats to himself mockingly.

He tries again. And again. His frustration mounts, and with it his despair and self-loathing. As he is about to mentally call it quits, he finally gets help from a group of preteens on bikes. One of the girls thankfully knows where Broadchurch is; she goes surfing there with her gran. “It’s about a 40 minute drive” she recalls, “Or you can take Bus 96 to White Swan and then catch the next one going to shore points south.”

He walks to the bus stop. Realizes he doesn’t have a wallet. Also realizes he’s forgotten to eat anything, but seeing as he doesn’t have a wallet, that will apparently have to wait. Not having a wallet - that raises questions. _ Well, I presumably lost it in the commotion at the book shop yesterday,_ he reasons, _ but then how did I get 20 miles away with no phone and no wallet? It makes no sense! Did I walk? Jesus I was out of it, still am judging by the way nothing is making sense this morning. _

He leans against the bus stop wearily. Forces himself to take a number of deep controlled breaths - counting to five on the inhale and exhale as Aziraphale liked to make him do. God, the man kept trying to get him to do yoga. And meditation. Thought it would be good for him. As if going to see a therapist every other week for the last 17 years wasn’t enough.

_ Although,_ Crowley reprimanded himself, _ Aziraphale isn’t however many towns over from where he's supposed to be with no phone, no wallet, and no plan, so maybe he’s right. He's clearly better adjusted than I am. _ _ Of course he’s better adjusted! He isn’t falling apart over something that happened over 20 years ago. _ And now he’s thinking about it again, that’s not helping. _Really, really not helpful Crowley. What were we doing? Breathing. Right. _

He makes his way back to his bench from earlier, sits with his head in his hands, and calms enough to count aloud. “1, 2, 3, 4, 5. In. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. Out. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. In. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. Out…”

Twenty minutes later, he’s somehow even more exhausted, but his head is clear. Well, clearer anyway. “Really must have walked all night, huh?” is the first reasonable thought he's had in who knows how long - hours probably. But the forced calm allows him to think, and it's not long before he has a plan. He repeats it to himself one more time: Find a payphone. Call the police. Ask for Broadchurch and the nice detective lady from yesterday and ask her to pass a message on to Aziraphale at the Trader’s hotel with his location.

Okay, good, a plan. Now he just has to get himself off this bench and walk over there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is so short! I didn't feel right combining another scene with this one since this one was so different in style and writing from all the others. Probably won't have another chapter until Sunday or Monday, as I'm travelling for work at the moment.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley returns

Crowley calls the operator and asks for the Broadchurch Police. There’s a brief pause as the line is connected, and then “Broadchurch Police, please state your emergency.”

“Um, no emergency sir, I was just calling for a D.S. Miller? She was at the bookshop explosion yesterday.”

“Just a minute, I’ll connect you with the Criminal Investigation Department," is the reply.

“Broadchurch Police,” a gruff voice that is most decidedly NOT D.S. Miller answers the phone. 

Crowley sighs, “I was calling for D.S. Miller,” he repeats.

There’s a brief pause on the other end of the phone and then - “Miller!”, in a deep Scottish brogue rings out from the other end of the line. “Transferrin' a call to ya!”

Crowley can’t hear her response, but she must have agreed to take his call because a few moments later he hears the kind voice from yesterday, “This is D.S. Miller. Can I help you?”

“Hi, we met yesterday, my name is Crowley.” There’s a sharp intake of breath on the other side of the phone and it throws him off his carefully rehearsed script. “I, um, I was, shit.” He forces himself to refocus, “I was at the crime scene yesterday,” he finishes hastily, scrambling for words.

“Yes, I know,” Miller responds, struggling to find her footing in this unexpected call. Why had Hardy transferred this call to her? Did he not even ask who was on the other end of the line? She could throttle him. “Are you alright?”, she finally manages, proud of herself for thinking of something professional, and relevant, to say.

“Yes, yes, fine,” he assures her. “It’s just, uh, I’ve found myself stranded without a car or money for a bus, so I was hoping you could pass a note on to my husband? I don’t know if you remember him. His name is Aziraphale. I know his number, and…”

“Oh, yes of course,” she rushes to answer him, cutting him off from his rambling. "I actually have his number in the file here. He stopped by the station yesterday to give a statement. Great guy your husband.” Now she is the one rambling. Picking up the slip of paper with the phone number, she asks, “Where did you say you are again?”

“West Coker,” he answers.

“West Coker,” she nods, writing it down. “And where should he meet you?”

Crowley looks around for anything identifying, and notices a park a little ways down the road. He cranes his neck for a sign and doesn’t see one. “There’s a little park. Don’t know the name of it, but it’s on Halves Lane. Just tell him to look for it, he’ll find me.”

“I’m sure he will,” Miller assures him in return. 

There’s a moment of silence, and then, “Are you sure you’re alright?” Miller presses, “I know you left the scene in a rush yesterday. I know that can be a stressful situation for any-”

“I said I was fine,” a hardness has entered Crowley’s voice. “Just please pass the note onto Aziraphale.”

“Of course I will,” she starts, and before she can say anything else - ask him to stop by the station for a statement, ask him to let her know he gets home safe, confirm he’s alright one more time - he’s hung up the phone and she’s left listening to a dial tone.

She’s still listening to the dial tone a second later when Hardy sticks his head out of the office, “He have any info on the explosion?”

“No,” she says.

“No?” Hardy asks, “Then why -”

“That,” she says pointing to the phone she’s only just put back in the cradle, “That was your brother.”

\---

After talking Alec off an emotional cliff, Ellie rings up Aziraphale.

“Oh hello,” he greets her rather politely, “Is there something I can help you with?”

“Actually, your husband just called,” she informs him.

“Oh!,” Aziraphale says, “Is he okay? Is he on his way back?”

“He actually asked if you could come pick him up,” she explains.

There’s silence on the other end of the phone and assuming he’s waiting for more details, she says, “He’s in West Coker at a little park, actually the West Coker Recreation Grounds, I Googled it. Doesn’t have money for a bus and wanted me to ask you to pick him up.”

There’s another moment of silence, and Ellie is about to ask if everything is alright when Aziraphale blurts out, “Did he actually ask you to ask me to pick him up?,” he asks incredulously.

“What?”, now it’s Ellie’s turn to be confused. “I mean, you will, won’t you? I told him -”

“I can’t drive,” Aziraphale interrupts again.

“What?,” she says again, this time more surprised than confused.

“I can’t drive,” he repeats, “He _ knows _I can’t drive. And he would murder me if I even touched his car…”, he drifts off, thinking. “Do you know how to get there by bus?,” he asks apparently finding a solution.

“I’ll drive,” Ellie responds instead of answering his question.

“No, no, I wouldn’t impose,” he says.

“Aziraphale. I’ll drive,” she says again, more forcefully this time, “don’t be ridiculous.”

“Okay, okay,” he says more to himself than her and then, “Thank you dearly! I hope it’s not a huge inconvenience.”

“Nonsense. I’m happy to do it. I want to meet him properly, and Alec -”

“You can’t bring Alec!,” Aziraphale says with a mild panic in his voice.

“Why not?” Ellie asks.

“Because we’re trying to get him to get IN the car, Ellie. He doesn’t know about Alec at all yet," he pauses, "unless you told him?”

“No, of course not.”

“Right. Then he has no idea. Think of what that would do to him. He’s already upset. Tired. Emotional. Yesterday was traumatic for him, and he walked all night it sounds like. If we show up with his estranged brother in the car, after all this time, I don’t know how he’d respond to that.”

Ellie hums in agreement.

“I can’t,” he starts, not sure how he planned to end that sentence.

“No, you’re right,” she assures him. “You’re absolutely right.” A pause. “I’ll pick you up in 15 minutes. You’re at the hotel still?”

“Yes,” he confirms, “I’ll wait outside.”

\---

It’s closer to 30 minutes later when Ellie pulls up outside the Trader Hotel. She sees Aziraphale jump up from where he’d been waiting immediately, and hurry over to the car. 

“Sorry, sorry" she says as he opens the passenger door, “I had to convince Alec not to come.”

“Oh,” says Aziraphale. He’s not sure what else to say.

“He knew we were right of course, but he wanted to come anyway. He really really wants to see his brother, Aziraphale,” she confides in him.

“Yeah,” says Aziraphale, “About that. I've been thinking. I know we have to explain it to Crowley, and I think the sooner the better. When we get there, to West Coker, when we pick him up, if he’s alright, I’ll explain it to him then, before we get back in the car so he knows who you are as well. I think that's better than avoiding it. Or springing it on him when we're already in the car. I don't want him to feel trapped.”

“Assuming you don’t mind waiting,” he adds as an afterthought. 

She assures him she doesn’t mind at all and the rest of the trip is spent on lighter topics - books, plays, even the weather - but both of their thoughts are miles away thinking about their respective partners, and how the rest of this afternoon will play out. 

\---

An hour and a half later, Aziraphale and Crowley are both in the backseat of Ellie’s car. They had found him relatively easily; he was exactly where he said he would be, just sitting there - if you can call sprawling across a bench like that sitting - looking like he didn’t have a care in the world. After a firm embrace, Crowley must have said he was hungry because Aziraphale knocked on her window to let Ellie know they were going to run into a bakery two streets over and asking if she wanted anything.

She had told them to bring her back an almond croissant if they didn’t mind, and then she drove around the block and found a place to park and wait for them to emerge. 40 minutes after walking into the bakery the two emerged holding hands - it was both a lot longer than a lot shorter than Ellie had anticipated. She couldn’t tell much from their expressions, but knew Crowley looked more nervous than angry or a plethora of other less savory emotions. 

“Hello,” he said politely as he got in the car, holding out a takeout bag from the bakery for her to grab, “Thank you for coming to pick me up. I don’t really know how I expected Zira to do it himself. I wasn't thinking clearly.”

She waved him off, “not a problem at all,” she assured him.

“I’m Crowley,” he said slowly, not sure if he should be introducing himself again, “I’m told your shagging my brother.”

She laughed, she couldn’t help it, it was so unexpected and yet so perfect, so she laughed, loud and short.

Aziraphale was embarrassed, “Crowley!,” he scolded, climbing in the car behind him, but she could tell he was trying not to laugh as well.

“You’ve been informed correctly,” she said, eyes sparkling. Painful minefields ahead or not, she knew she was going to get along just splendidly with this man if he let her. 

And now they’re driving along the A37. The two men are cuddled together in the backseat; Crowley with his back against Aziraphale’s chest, and his long legs stretched out across the seat and foot well. She had suggested a seat belt of course, but quickly backed down at the withering glare Crowley had afforded her. _ Well, at least Aziraphale put one on, _ she thinks to herself. Driving down the highway, she can’t help but watch them through the rear view mirror. It’s clear how perfect they are for each other, how they balance each other out, support each other. 

She never would have said it while talking to Aziraphale yesterday, but now that she’s seen them together, it’s like he wasn’t complete without Crowley next to him. Two halves of the same whole, fitting perfectly together.

She knows this sort of comfort, this familiarity, comes with years of leaning on each other, learning about each other, and for a moment she’s reminded of her own relationship with Joe, but she immediately pushes those thoughts out of her head before she can get too morose over that dickhead. She hopes that one day her and Alec will have what these two have. She’s only known them for 24 hours and spent less than a collective two hours in their presence, but already she can tell their bond is the stuff people dream of. 

\--

Ellie had texted Alec when they were leaving West Coker so she’s not surprised at all to see him across the way when they pull into the police station. She’s about to give the two in the backseat a heads up when she notices that Crowley’s eyes are already fixed across the car park. 

“You don’t have to,” starts Aziraphale, but Crowley has already disentangled himself from his partner’s embrace and scooted across the seat to the door.

“Yes. I do.” he says, centers himself, and steps out of the car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does that count as meeting?? haha sorry.
> 
> Anyway, next chapter will be up on Wednesday. Pretty sure there's only two (but possibly three) chapters left
> 
> Oh! Almost forgot! Sangoha suggested in a comment on the last chapter that Alec be the one to pick up the phone, and I loved it so much I stole it and reworked the beginning of this to make it happen... Except Hardy is exactly the kind of person to neither introduce himself nor ask who he's talking to and Crowley would never recognize his voice so ... yeah, they're idiots.


	7. Reunited at Last

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alec and Crowley are reunited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I lied, have an early update... The chapter you've all been waiting for: Crowley and Alec meet.

After wearing a hole in the carpet from his pacing and biting the head off one of the sergeants who stuck his head in the office to ask a question, Alec decided he was no good for anyone today and should probably go get some fresh air. Not trusting himself to drive at the moment, he begins the long walk to the cliffs.

Rather than the walk calming him, it's had the opposite effect. By the time he’s made it there, he’s imagined exactly 27 different ways the impending reunion could go horribly wrong. He looks out over the crashing waves and worries. He worries that Crowley will punch him, that he’ll curse him out, that he’ll blame him for not looking for him, for not standing up for him as a child, that his brother will disapprove of his life now, see him for the failure he is, that he’ll yell and scream and cry, but mostly he worries that Crowley will hate him on site and won’t even give him a chance.

And that thought hurts.

It’s not that Alec would _ blame _ Crowley for wanting nothing to do with him - he can’t imagine his twin holds fond memories of their childhood or their family, can’t even say for sure if Crowley holds any fond memories of him. 

He picks up a rock and hurls it. Watches clunk into the sand below. It’s kind of disappointing to be honest, no crash, no splash, no bounce, just a dull thud into the too forgiving beach. He picks up another rock and chucks it. The same disappointing splat. He’s about to pick up and hurl a third when his phone chimes. It’s Ellie.

'Stop imagining worst case scenarios. Go get a tea. We’ll be back soon. Love you. Xxx'

'Don’t want tea', he texts back, not wanting to be dragged out of his bad mood. He picks up the third rock. Throws it. Watches its dull thud in the sand.

'Hmm… Don’t care. Go get it anyway. You need it.'

That text is immediately followed by - 'Also, I love you. XXX'

He smiles at his phone despite himself; she knows him so well.

'It going well?', he sends instead of replying to anything she said. 

'Just picked him up from the park. Aziraphale’s talking to him now, explaining it all to him. Not sure how long that’ll take. I’ll text you when we’re on our way back.'

'He okay?' 

'Seemed to be. Didn’t talk to him myself, but he appeared to be physically fine. And Aziraphale’s breaking it to him nicely over breakfast.'

Alec doesn’t respond. He’s glaring at his phone, wanting it to give him answers no one has yet.

'It’s going to be alright, Alec. Try and think positive for once.'

When Alec doesn’t respond to that text either, she sends one more: 'Tea, love. Now, please.'

When he doesn’t answer _ that _text his phone begins to ring.

“Alright! Alright! I’ll go get tea!” he answers.

“Good,” she responds sincerely. She knows she won’t have his attention for long, so she adds, “It’ll be alright, you know. _ You’ll be alright._”

“Yeah, yeah. See you soon,” he says and hangs up. 

Alec puts the phone back in his pocket and turns to start making his way back towards town and the station. Twenty miles away, Ellie hopes that she's right.

'Love you too' she sends before slipping her phone into one of the cup holders. 

\-------

Forty minutes later when Alec receives the text that Ellie, Aziraphale, and Crowley are all on their way back to Broadchurch, he’s just made it back to the station. He considers forgoing the tea, but decides to go inside to make it just so he can say he did. He immediately finds himself back in the car park. He sits on the steps, warm tea in hand, staring resolutely down the road, waiting. He knows it’s at least a forty minute drive, but can’t help but look up anxiously at every car that drives by. He takes a sip of the tea, and is willing to admit, if only to himself, that having the tea in hand is in fact making this wait more bearable.

When Ellie’s car pulls into the lot, Alec has to force himself not to immediately run to the car and force the situation. He waits. He counts to three. He puts the tea down. Fidgets. Waits. His stomach churns with anticipation as he watches the far side door open and a head with red hair emerge above the door frame. He tells himself to wait.

He tells himself to wait, but clearly his legs have other ideas because before he knows it, he’s crossed half the distance, and his brother is right there, _ he’s right there _, coming towards him. Crowley's not running, not yelling, not backing away, so Alec's brain throws all caution to the wind and lets his heart take control; he completes the distance between them, wraps his arms around Crowley, around his_ twin_, and buries his head in his brother’s neck.

Alec imagined 27 different scenarios for this meeting, each one worse than the previous. What he didn’t imagine, what he never allowed himself to hope for, was this moment right here: the moment the hug was returned. 

Less than a second after his arms encircle his brother, he feels the returning grip. There are hands fisted in his jacket and a head leaned against the top of where he’s nuzzled his. It should be awkward after 30 years apart, two grown men who are basically strangers, but it’s not. It feels right, easy. There’s something instinctive about the need to comfort a loved one, something that’s ingrained into our DNA, and despite everything, this hug is the most natural thing in the world.

Alec takes a deep breath, he had so much he planned to say, so much to explain, so much he wants to beg forgiveness for. However, it’s all too much and when he opens his mouth all that comes out is a sob. D.I. Alec Hardy, a man who prides himself on covering up his emotions, is openly weeping into the arms of his brother and it’s more cathartic than he ever could have imagined.

Crowley makes to step back when he feels the first tears. His instinct is to evaluate the situation, ask questions, provide a solution, but Alec just clings tighter, preventing him from putting any distance between them.

“I thought you were dead,” he whispers, repeating the confession he gave Ellie less than 24 hours ago.

Well shit, that’s not the first words Alec planned on saying after all this time. He shakes his head as Crowley again makes to push him back, create space, look for answers. He doesn’t have any answers, not now, not yet. “I thought you were dead!” he says again instead, lets the words flood with raw emotion. 

And Crowley gets it, or at least he thinks he does. Although shocking to hear, he’s not as surprised by those words as most would expect. He’ll ask Alec for a full backstory later of course, but he’s starting to piece it together himself already. He’s had a lifetime to think through the possibilities after all, knows his mother had to explain his absence somehow. What’s one more lie, one more hurt, on top of all the others doled out by her? To him, it's not the worst thing she's ever done. He has questions, lots of them, but now is not the time for them. Now is the time for comfort. As daunting as it is to hear, of course no one wants to hear rumors of their own death, this story can't hurt him; the pain isn't his, it’s Alec’s. 

“I’m not,” he offers lamely, forcing a small smile even though Alec can’t see it with his face still buried in Crowley’s neck.

It earns him a groan, a hiccup. 

“It’s alright,” he offers instead, bringing his hands up to cup the back of Alec’s head, "It's alright". 

Alec shakes his head. Everyone keeps saying that and it's not. It's so far from alright he doesn't even know where to begin. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, once at first and then over and over again like a flood.

“What, no -” Crowley doesn't want an apology from Alec.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he repeats. It’s an endless stream of words and Crowley is momentarily washed away by the force of it.

“Shhhh…” he murmurs finally, “I never blamed you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And yeah, you'll still get an update on Wednesday.


	8. Alec and Anthony J.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Alec talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You are all THE loveliest humans! I so enjoy waking up to all your comments after posting a chapter. Have some more brother bonding.

The hug lasts 10 seconds. Or, maybe the hug lasts an hour. Neither of them have any concept of the passing of time; they’re just lost in the euphoria of finding each other mixed with the pain of the past, fear for the future, and the uncertainty that comes with zillions of unanswered questions. 

Neither of them is sure who is the first to let go, the first to initiate space, but when they finally step apart and take stock of their surroundings, Aziraphale and Ellie are no longer in the car waiting for them. They must have left in order to give them some privacy.

“Er,” Alec starts ineloquently. He’s never been a man of many words and now that he’s not crying his eyes out, he’s not sure where to go from here. He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand and rubs at his nose in an attempt to regain a bit of composure. “Tea?” he offers, nodding towards the building. That seems like an appropriate course of action in the given situation. 

“In the police station?,” Crowley questions, raising an eyebrow.

“Er, no, you’re right, we can go, uh, elsewhere. For tea.”

“Right.”

Neither of them moves for a second.

Crowley breaks the silence, “Well my car isn’t here and I don’t know where we’re going, so you’ll have to drive.”

“I don’t have a car either,” Alec admits shaking his head, “Ellie drove me to work.”

“Right.”

“Right.”

The silence stretches between them until Crowley breaks it, “So Broadchurch police station tea it is,” he concludes, turning back towards the building.

Alec grimaces; he knows the tea in the station is terrible. Yeah, he downs it all the time without ever really tasting it, but everyone else whines about it constantly. If Crowley is forming an opinion of him, deciding if he’s worth keeping in his life, worth making an effort for, he really doesn’t want to actually offer this tea to him. His mind searches for a plausible alternative and turns up blank. He sighs, defeated. “It’s shit tea,” he warns and takes a step around his brother to lead the way.

“It’s tea,” answers Crowley, “that’s all that matters.”

And Crowley is true to his word. He doesn’t pull a face at the year old tea bags, the lack of milk, or even the microwave-warmed water. He accepts the cup of scorched black tea and downs half of it immediately. Alec supposes some things are genetic after all. 

Hearing voices further down the hall, he assumes Ellie and Aziraphale are in the larger cafeteria, and wonders if he and Crowley should join them. He’s dithering, not wanting to make a wrong decision, when Crowley, thank God, takes the choice out of his hands by pulling out a chair in the kitchenette, turning it around backward, and draping himself over it.

“So,” Crowley starts.

Alec takes a seat opposite him, and gestures for him to continue. It’s clear that Crowley is the one who’ll be leading this exchange since Alec has found himself at a complete loss of anything useful to do or say.

“Do you always answer the phone without introducing yourself?”

Alec chokes on his tea. “What?”

“That was you earlier, wasn’t it? When I phoned the station looking for a ride?”

Alec nods absentmindedly, can’t believe that this is the chosen opening topic of conversation. There’s so much that hasn't been shared between them and Crowley is calling him out for how he answers the phone? Why? What about what he’s been doing the last three decades? What about their mother? His confession in the parking lot? The niece he’s heard of but knows nothing about? And suddenly Alec gets it. How do you discuss any of that with someone who’s a stranger, someone who knows nothing about you, someone you want to put faith in but aren’t sure you can question? So Crowley starts by ribbing him about the phone. He’s laying the groundwork for this conversation, setting his boundaries: He’s saying ‘I want to talk to you, get to know you, but I can’t open up to you yet, can’t lay my heart of the line if it’s going to get stomped on.’ And Alec respects that; is happy for the conversational navigational map that’s been provided.

“Yeah,” he answers the question, finding his footing, “that was me.”

Crowley smiles, “Should have known.”

“How could you have possibly known?,” Alec counters.

“Well, accent for one, also you’re a detective, I knew that much about you, and you never did have proper manners.”

“Proper manners! Me? That’s rich, coming from you,” Alec slips into the brotherly banter as if it’s a role he never truly stopped playing. “Wait,” his mind catches on something Crowley let slip, “You knew I was a detective?,” he asks, slightly taken aback.

“Saw it in the papers,” Crowley admits, “Must have been what … four years back now? Sandbrook Murders I think it was?” 

Alec blows out a sharp breath. They’ve wandered into dangerous territory; that case is deeply personal and painful for him, and he’s not sure how to navigate the topic without changing the mood and dynamics of the conversation.

Crowley must sense the change in the atmosphere cause he quickly attempts to divert it, providing Alec an easy out, “Are you really the worst cop in Britain?”

Alec laughs slightly, relieved he doesn’t have to delve into the details of the Sandbrook case, “Nah, not anymore. Solved that one finally. Almost killed me, but I solved it.” There’s a story there, Crowley knows, but they’re not pushing right now, and he accepts that. Some day, when Alec is ready to tell it, he’ll hear it. And someday, when he’s ready to tell it, Alec will hear about Kate. Alec is still talking, so he files Sandbrook away as something to look at later, “And just solved another murder here. Doing quite well recently actually.” He hopes Crowley won't ask about the Broadchurch murder either, unsure how to explain Joe. 

“If you knew about Sandbrook, knew it was me, you knew where I was,” he hedges.

Crowley confirms that with a nod.

“Then why didn’t you reach out? Why didn’t you try and connect?,” he asks voice shaking; he's upset, both confused and saddened by the idea that Crowley had apparently wanted nothing to do with him when given the opportunity.

“I didn’t know if you’d want to hear from me,” confesses Crowley, eyes meeting Alec’s across the table, “Didn’t know what you thought of me, what you’d been told... if you still thought I was demonic.”

Alec winces, “I didn’t -”

“No, I know”, Crowley is quick to reassure him. “That’s clear now. Couldn’t be more apparent.”

Alec breaks eye contact, he’s not good at this stuff, he’s not - and searches for a comfortable topic. It seems that everything they share is tainted. “Aziraphale says you’re an interior designer?” he asks with no real segue. 

“I am,” Crowley says proudly, eyes lighting up a little as he talks, explaining what he does and how he does it, how it let’s him travel around the world and meet interesting people. It’s the most he’s said since they’ve met and Alec wonders if he’s always this animated when he talks. He smiles in encouragement and adds a few questions to show he’s actively listening. 

Crowley quiets a bit then admits,“I think a small part of me hoped you’d find me that way. Through the business. It’s why I put my name on it. Knew you'd recognize it. Should have known you’d never pick up a single home decor magazine in your life.”

“Ach, no. Sorry. Ellie’s apparently seen it though. Said so yesterday when we were talkin’ to Aziraphale.”

And now that Crowley’s brought up names, he has to ask, “Anthony - “

“No.”

“What?”

“Don’t do that. I know Zira told you.”

Apparently every topic has the potential for disaster buried in it, “But the business,” Alec ventures.

“Is the business,” Crowley cuts him off, a bit of anger behind both the words and his eyes, and Alec isn’t sure how to reset to a few moments ago when they were smiling and the tension wasn’t choking them.

“Alec,” Crowley softens a little, and now it’s his turn to flinch. A recognition ignites in Crowley’s eyes and he lets out a soft “oh”. 

“Yeah.”

“You don’t use it either.” It’s not a question.

“Only Ellie, and her family," Alec answers it anyway. "You can use it too," he offers quietly.

Crowley shakes his head, is about to deny that right.

"No," insists Alec, "You can." And he means it, wants his brother to know he's allowed to really know him.

Crowley understands the weight of what he's just been offered and is touched. "Thank you," he says sincerely. If his eyes are more watery than before neither of them mention it. He takes a sip of tea as a distraction as he ponders Alec's relation to and use of his name, the connotation of protecting it, of offering it up as a gift to those he accepts into his private circle. He wonders how few people Alec has in life that truly know and love him, if he feels alienated from almost everyone he meets, if he purposely keeps everyone an arm’s distance away. 

“Does Ellie know what the J stands for?,” Crowley offers their shared middle name as an olive branch.

“Yeah,” laughs Alec, “She got that out of me before we were even properly datin’. Saw the J on my hiring papers and hounded me for a month before she got me wasted in a pub and I just told her.”

Crowley laughs in return, “Don’t tell Aziraphale that! I knew him 13 years before I came clean about the J.” He leans in as if letting Alec in on a secret, “Went behind his back and made it so that the marriage certificate just had a J on it. You should have seen the conniption he had when he saw it.”

They’re both laughing now, and Ellie and Aziraphale must hear them because they choose this moment to stick their heads around the corner. “Sorry to interrupt,” says Ellie, entering the kitchenette, “But I’ve got to head out. I have to pick up Fred from my sister’s and Tom’ll be home from practice soon.”

“Please keep talking though, I just wanted to say bye before heading out,” she offers a small wave.

Crowley is the first to push his seat back, but Alec follows right after. 

“No, no, we all should be on our way,” says Alec.

“It’s been a long day,” agrees Crowley.

“I hate to break up the conversation,” says Ellie feeling bad, looking at Aziraphale for support.

He shrugs, “Actually, Crowley and I could use a ride back to the hotel if you don’t mind.”

“Oh!” exclaims Ellie; she’d forgotten she’d driven them here, she’d driven all three of them here actually, but she still feels bad about getting in the way of the brothers' reunion, “Well, I can wait another half hour or so if you want to continue this conversation, Tom’s fine on his own for a bit, and I’m sure Luce -”

“El, you’re rambling,” interjects Alec.

“Crowley really needs to eat something,” inserts Aziraphale at the same time.

“I’m honestly ready for a good night’s sleep,” concludes Crowley.

\--------

The car ride is a quiet affair. Alec is sitting in the passenger seat and Aziraphale and Crowley are once again cuddled up in the backseat, Crowley disregarding all seat belt laws. She wonders absently if she’ll ever be able to make a dent in that habit. 

Alec had reached his hand over to grab hers at some point early in the drive and she still holds it now, happy to be a steady source of comfort. Alec is currently in the middle of a story about Daisy and some school dance and Aziraphale and Crowley are both asking questions about the D.I’s daughter.

It had been a stressful day and she knows there are plenty of difficult days ahead of them, but right now, she’s thankful for the calmness that has settled over the inhabitants of her car. Today went better than she expected; it certainly went better than Alec had expected, and she’s content to let the soft conversation wash over her, adding her two cents as necessary. 

It’s not long before they pull up outside of Alec’s flat; she opted to drop him off first since he’s the only one out of the way. “I’ll stop by later,” he promises, kissing Ellie as he gets out of the car, “and you,” he asks, leaning back in the open door and addressing Crowley, “Can I -”, he starts, “Will I?” he starts again, both questions petering out before they reach a conclusion. He wants to ask when he will see his brother again, but isn’t sure how to make the request without pressuring him.

It’s Aziraphale who takes pity on him. “We’ll come by the station tomorrow afternoon. Crowley still has to give a statement, doesn’t he? And maybe we can all do dinner after? Bring the kids,” he adds looking up at Ellie.

Ellie and Alec are both nodding, agreeing with the plan when Crowley sits up and blurts out, “Wait? You haven’t solved the explosion yet?” 

They all turn to look at him, but he’s scrambling in the seat to look at his husband, “Zira, you were _there._ You were standing right next to me. We saw who did it.”

“I didn’t!” Aziraphale splutters.

Crowley looks at him with a mixture of fondness and exasperation, “I can’t believe you, angel,” he sighs, “Guess you were too buried in the books.”

Ellie clears her throat. “Could you identify the perpetrator from a still shot on a CCTV camera?” she asks.

“Yeah,” Crowley sounds confident, turning back around in the seat to look at her. “I could pick her out.”

“Right,” she says, already putting the car in reverse. “You coming Alec?,” she asks, ready to drive back to the station.

He clamors back into the front seat. “Are we really doing this now?,” he grumbles.

“Well no one’s gonna sleep right knowing we’re putting it off while the culprit runs free,” counters Ellie. “No one’s forcing you to come though,” she adds, knowing he’ll insist on being there.

“You can go home to the boys,” Alec counter offers, “I can take care of this.”

“Yeah, no,” is Ellie’s simple response. 

“But,” starts Alec.

“First of all, you can’t take your brother’s statement; he’s your brother,” she reminds him. Alec looks chagrined; he’d forgotten that part. “And second,” she adds, “Assuming you end up with a positive identification, no way am I letting you make this arrest by yourself.” 

He doesn’t bother with a response, knowing he’s been defeated.

“Text Lucy,” she says handing him her phone; she’s already backing up the drive to the main road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, right, there was a case wasn't there? Guess we should solve it... 
> 
> Any guesses what their middle name is?
> 
> Next update probably won't be until Sunday or Monday. Hopefully now that the brother's have met you won't want to kill me too much for making you wait. <3
> 
> Happy Thanksgiving to all who celebrate!!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> an arrest, a dinner, and a good bye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my god, I can't believe this is the last chapter! And somehow it's the longest one yet.

Back at the station Crowley gives a full rundown of the whole morning and how it unfolded, or at least his morning and his observations. Miller is impressed with his attention to detail. Then, he identifies the culprit, first providing a description from memory, offering to sketch out a rough drawing of her likeness, then easily selects her from the still shots of the footage.

Unfortunately there weren’t any cameras inside the bookshop, but the one on the building next door captured everyone who came in and out that morning. There were a total of 14 people in the shop when the bomb was set off, two who were under the age of eight, and the other twelve are technically listed as potential suspects, though some rank higher on that list than others.

Miller is pleased to note that the woman Crowley ID’s as “definitely the one”, is one of the suspects they already started a file on, seeing as her fingerprints were not only found at the scene, but were one of only four on remains of the explosive device itself. And, she notes to herself, his sketch drawing prior to seeing the still shots will do wonders for their case if it goes to court.

“Right, that’s everything Crowley unless you have any additional information you’d like to share?”

“Not that I can think of,” he confirms.

“Great. Just stop and get fingerprinted before you leave, and let us know if you think of anything else. You’ve been a huge help.” She turns off the recording and leads him out of the room to find Aziraphale and Alec both waiting.

Miller asks the other two to wait a moment while she updates Hardy - a clear identification has been made, but they don’t have a motive yet. She doesn’t want to drag this evening out any longer than necessary so she convinces Alec to table follow up interviews with both the suspect and others who might be able to provide more insight until tomorrow. Hardy phones in a patrol car to keep an eye on Vanessa Klemmens who is now suspect #1. They’ll be alerted immediately if she does anything suspicious or tries to make a run for it.

\--------

The next day, when Hardy shows up for work, he looks like he’s barely slept. Miller inwardly chastises herself for letting him spend the night alone when he insisted he needed time to think; that much time to brood never sits well with her melancholy partner.

“How’d you sleep?,” she asks.

His response is a grunt.

“That well?”

He grunts again.

  
It’s going to be a long day. “Hardy -”

“We have an interview with the suspect’s mother at 9:00, and someone who’s been identified as her best friend at 10:00. If all goes well, we can have her in and booked by noon,” he ignores her attempt at conversation. Miller crosses her arms and holds her ground, refusing to be distracted.

“I hear you,” he concedes, “I hear you and you’re right, but I need to solve this right now.”

“No, you _ need _ to take care of yourself,” she volleys right back, ready for this argument. “It’s always _ need to _ with you Alec, and it’s unhealthy. No one is judging you if you need to take a few minutes to sort out your mental health, or your health in general.”

“I know.”

“Do you though?,” she asks, softer than she meant to; she wanted to be angry with him for once again refusing to consider his most basic needs.

“Yes, okay, yes. I’m sorry.”

“Make me a promise.”

His face is a picture of confusion.

She sighs, spelling it out, “Promise me, that as soon as we get these two interviews done - case finalized or not - you’re going to take the time you need, _ as much time as you need... _

“Miller-”

“Nope. Not done. As much time as you need to put your head back on straight.”

“I can’t just walk away in the middle of the case,” Hardy says, throwing his hands up in the air in frustration.

“You can,” Miller insists, “And you will. The case is already solved. We’re just putting the pieces together to make it airtight. Have some faith in the rest of us, won’t you.”

Hardy looks like he wants to protest some more, but Miller hasn’t budged an inch from her original position, and he knows that he isn’t going to win this argument, so he shoves his hands in his pockets and grits out the promise she came in for.

“Good,” she says, immediately brightening, and adds quietly, “I’m not trying to be hard on you Alec; these past two days have been incredibly rough on you and I need to know that you’re okay.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah,” he says meeting her eyes again, “I do.”

“Then let’s go talk to Mrs. Klemmens you great knob.”

\-----

By the end of the second interview they’ve put together the rest of the pieces. Apparently Vanessa had been holding a grudge against the bookshop owner for months, ever since he broke off their relationship. And once that story spills out it’s easy, they have her at the scene, her fingerprints are on the bomb, she’s been nothing but uncooperative, and they have a positive identification from Crowley who watched the entire thing unfold. Of course she refuses to make an outright confession, but it’s not even 2pm and the culprit is behind bars.

Miller really wants to send her partner home, but despite the promise she squeezed out of him this morning, knows he’ll protest the dismissal now that the case is wrapping up. It’s not like he actually _likes _ doing paperwork, but it’s the principal of the matter. So she decides to play dirty and texts Aziraphale to invite him and Crowley over for dinner.

The couple takes a few minutes to respond, but when they do, it’s to ask what they should bring.

“A bottle of wine would be lovely. Alec’s cooking,” she texts back before sliding into Hardy’s office with a smug look on her face.

“What?” he asks, “What did you do?”

“Me? Oh nothing. Just invited your brother and brother-in-law to my house for dinner tonight. Hope you don’t mind.”

He looks a little like a deer in headlights, but manages to stammer out that no, he doesn’t mind at all.

“Good because you’re cooking.”

“What?” he sounds genuinely surprised.

She waves the phone in front of him. "I told them you were cooking.” She shrugs as if this is no big deal.

“Miller,” Hardy whines, "The case."

She just looks at him expectantly.

“Oh fine,” he gives in. Ellie beams.

“I’m not organizing the rest of these notes for you,” he says grumpily as he gathers up his things. “If you’re kicking me out, you’re gonna have to do it yourself,” he adds while purposely messing up the stack of paperwork piled neatly on his desk.

“Not a problem,” she ignores his antics, “already made a copy of everything for myself.” She pats him on the bum as he makes to walk around her.

“There’s chicken defrosting in the fridge,” she calls out after him before he can make his way completely out of their shared space.

The only response she gets is his middle finger in the air behind him.

\---------

Ellie told Aziraphale and Crowley to come over around 7, so when she walks in the door a little after 5 with Fred on her hip she’s a little surprised to see that everything is already 100% ready to be served.

She decides to ignore that for a moment. “Looks delicious,” shes says instead, looking appreciatively over the roasted chicken, mashed potatoes, mushy peas, roasted Brussels sprouts, salad, and cheesy bread, over to where Alec is making yet something else over on the stove.

“I know it’s a lot,” he says, walking over to greet her and Fred.

“Wasn’t going to mention it,” she says, kissing him in greeting.

“I panicked,” he admits, then kisses Fred on the forehead as well.

“I see that.” She puts Fred down, “Run upstairs and change into a new shirt, k?” He doesn’t answer but turns and bounds up the stairs, so she’ll just have to assume he’s following her directions.

“Do you think it’ll still taste good when they get here?,” asks Alec, looking worriedly at the time.

“Why don’t we see if they can stop by early, hmm? I’ll text them again, and you change out of your work clothes.”

He doesn’t look like he wants to leave the kitchen. “But, the pudding,” he protests weekly, gesturing at the stove top.

“I think I can handle the pudding,” she says. When he looks about to protest further, she pulls him in for another kiss, thoroughly distracting him from his obsessive cooking. When he finally gives up trying to break the kiss to needlessly watch the beef drippings reheat and melts into her attentions, she knows she’s successfully taken his mind off tonight’s proceedings.

“Go get changed,” she insists pulling away.

\----

Thankfully Crowley and Aziraphale are more than happy to join them earlier than they had been planning, and it’s only a few minutes after Alec comes back downstairs wearing one of the shirts he keeps at her place that they hear a car pulling into the driveway.

Ellie grabs Alec’s hand to reduce his fidgeting; she doesn’t bother to tell him that it’s all going to be fine. They’re waiting for the doorbell to ring when there’s a commotion from upstairs, and then Tom is skidding into the living room.

“Holy shit!,” he says, “Did you see their car?”

“Language,” they both respond at the same time, standing up from their spot on the couch.

Tom makes an apologetic face, but doesn’t voice an apology. “Did you see their car?” he repeats, voice full of wonder and excitement. He hasn’t stopped in his mad dash to the door. He’s already made his way over to the door to rip it open and before Alec or Ellie can do anything to stop him, he’s barreling outside.

“Holy shit!” they hear again, muffled this time by the distance between them. It’s followed by a distinct peel of laughter as Alec and Ellie make their own way to the door to greet their guests.

“Hello!” greets Ellie cheerfully, attempting to makeup for the rudeness of her son.

Aziraphale waves back enthusiastically as he closes his door and starts to make his way up the path, but Crowley has been waylaid by her teenage son. “Is this really your car?” he’s asking excitedly.

“Tom!” chides Ellie, aghast, “Manners!”

“Can’t help if he has good taste,” says Crowley, still hanging back while Tom circles the car with his mouth open.

“Tom!” yells Ellie again, “Get back inside now.”

“He’s fine,” insists Aziraphale, shaking both their hands as he reaches the door. “No problem at all. Crowley will talk for hours about that car; he’ll be pleased as punch that Tom has ‘good enough taste to recognize a true masterpiece’.” He says the last bit with finger quotes.

Alec steps around Aziraphale to meet his brother in the drive. “It really is a beauty,” he says as he walks up, admiring what truly is a beautiful antique automobile. Even with what little he knows about cars, he can tell that this is a rare find and one that has been treated with utmost affection. It’s good to get this little glimpse into Crowley’s life.

Crowley beams at him. “She really is,” he concurs. He has his sunglasses on, but Alec can tell the smile reaches his eyes. “Come inside,” he welcomes, “Tom, you too!” he adds, pulling the teen by the elbow back towards the house.

At the door, they’re greeted by another set of pounding footsteps as Fred launches himself around the corner straight at their guests.

Alec and Ellie both hold their breath for a moment, unsure how Crowley will react to being bombarded by a small child. Will this go poorly? Is this a trigger? Did he actually mention there’s a four-year-old living here? A hundred thoughts pass through Alec’s head in the second it takes Fred to cross the floor, but before he has a chance to truly panic, Crowley is already on the floor greeting the little man with a handshake.

“I’m Crowley and this is Aziraphale,” he says politely, pointing between himself and his partner.

Fred ignores the outstretched hand. Stares uncomprehendingly at Crowley before turning to look at Alec, and then back at Crowley. His face scrunches up in confusion.

“Uncle Alec?” he asks, twisting to get a better look at both of them.

Crowley grins, and Alec isn’t sure if it’s at being confused for his twin or the fact that the child is referring to him as uncle. Alec kneels down next to his brother and ruffles Fred’s hair, “I’m Alec, silly. This is my brother.”

Fred tilts his head, taking a moment to consider that, “Hello Uncle Alec’s Brother,” he says.

“Hello Fred,” Crowley answers.

“You don’t sound like Uncle Alec,” he says.

“That’s because I live in London,” explains Crowley.

Fred nods, accepting the answer despite not understanding it. “Okay Uncle Alec’s Brother.”

Crowley smiles again. Alec will never tire of seeing it. “It’s Crowley,” he says again, slowly.

“Crowee,” Fred tries.

“Crowley,” he repeats.

“Crowee,” says Fred.

“Crow,” says Crowley, deciding to break it down into two syllables.

“Crow,” says Fred dutifully, he’s got this part down.

“Lee,” adds Crowley, confident his plan will work.

“CROW!” shouts Fred, distracted.

“Crowley,” he tries one more time, not quite willing to admit defeat.

“Crow! Crow!” repeats Fred excitedly, and then adds, “Caw! Caw!!” and stomps away, flapping his arms as if they're wings.

“Oh my God,” whispers Ellie, humiliated, hand over her face. Her children are apparently determined to ruin this evening for her, but as she turns to apologize again, she sees Aziraphale laughing. He reaches a hand down to help Crowley to his feet. “Crow,” he says jokingly, and then adds “Caw, caw,” before dissolving in another fit of laughter. Before they know it, the four adults are all caught in a fit of uncontrollable giggles.

Tom rolls his eyes from across the room, “Can we eat now?”

Dinner is a lovely affair. The food, of course, is delicious and if anyone noticed the excessive amount of it, they were polite enough not to mention it. The evening passes quickly with Alec and Ellie sharing stories from lighthearted cases and Crowley and Aziraphale sharing stories from the bookshop, their travels around the world, and life in London. Tom and Crowley start to talk about cars, but they can't delve too far into the subject before Aziraphale expertly changes the topic to football which everyone is happy to voice an opinion on - even if Crowley’s only opinion is that it’s a waste of time.

When dinner is over, they migrate to the couch to share a second bottle of wine while watching the newest season of Bake Off. Tom disappears upstairs before the show starts, but it’s not long before he’s back down with them, even if he does have his nose buried in his mobile. Crowley can’t help but yell at the contestants on the screen despite knowing nothing about baking, and Aziraphale, it turns out, actually has quite a lot of baking knowledge.

Fred spends the majority of the evening playing with blocks, bringing various colors and shapes over for the adults to inspect. Crowley, Ellie notices, has lined up all his offerings in color and size order next to the couch he’s leaning against, and once he has two of each except one, she hears him whisper to Fred to bring him a small blue one to complete his collection.

As a second episode concludes, it’s time for the evening to draw to an end. Aziraphale voices that it’s probably time they be heading home and Ellie concurs that she should probably start getting Fred ready for bed soon. Crowley stretches from his spot on the floor, knocking into his own block arrangement, and looking at it sheepishly before quickly scooping it up, and helping Fred put it away. Alec pushes himself up from the recliner he’d chosen for himself and offers a hand at picking up the rest of the blocks while asking if they have plans for the rest of the week.

“We’re headed back to London the day after tomorrow,” says Crowley a little sadly.

“Ay,” nods Alec, a little disappointed in how little time they’ve had together.

“But you should keep in touch,” Crowley says, already pulling out his phone to exchange numbers.

A look of relief passes over Alec’s face. It isn’t until this moment that he realizes how unsure he was about all of this. If Crowley would keep in touch. If he had more than this one week to soak in his brother’s existence. If he was going to have to go back to pretending his brother didn't exist. Something tight uncoils in his gut and he breathes freer than he has since that fateful afternoon when Ellie broke the news to him. “I’d like that," he says and pulls out his phone as well.

\--------

Aziraphale and Crowley spend their last day in Broadchurch lounging on the beach. It’s only 22 degrees so neither of them are braving the water, but Aziraphale has brought no less than four books (“You can’t possibly read them all, angel”), and Crowley is stretched out directly on the sand attempting to soak up the last of the summer sun (“You’re going to be absolutely covered in sand dear boy, you’re a nightmare!”).

They stop that night at The Station Kitchen, the restaurant Maggie had recommended on their first day. (“How is that you remember the newsagents name when you failed to remember _ anything _ that happened in the bookstore?”) Rather than a main course, Aziraphale had asked for one of each thing from the starters menu and a delectable feast was laid before them.

“It’s been an interesting week,” says Aziraphale as they're wrapping up.

“It has,” agrees Crowley.

“Are you alright?,” asks Aziraphale seriously, peering at his husband across the table.

Crowley doesn’t answer right away. It’s not an easy question; Aziraphale hasn’t asked it lightly and he doesn’t want to blow it off by simply insisting he’s fine. It _ has _ been an interesting week, to put it mildly, and Crowley isn’t sure how he stands, but overall?

“I think so,” he answers honestly, “or, at least, I will be.”

Aziraphale nods solemnly, “You know I’m here for you,” he says reaching a hand across the table, “for whatever you need.”

Crowley reaches back and interlocks his fingers with his husbands, “Thank you.” He thinks a moment. “I want you to insist that I call Alec.” Aziraphale squeezes his fingers to show he heard and let’s him continue. “It’s just, I know I’ll put it off. It’s uncomfortable. And it’ll be easier to just return to old habits. Pretend this never happened and settle back into ‘normal’. But I can’t do that. I can’t do that to Alec… I can’t do that to me.”

“Of course,” says Aziraphale. “We’ll figure it out together. It might be hard at times, and you can take all the time you need,” Crowley starts to protest, “But I won’t let you run from this - From your family, from healing.”

Crowley hears the sincere promise in his husband’s words, “I don’t know what I’d do with out you.”

“Nor I you,” agrees Aziraphale.

\----------

The next morning they decide to head out early. Crowley texts both Ellie and Alec to thank them for their hospitality and to let them know they’re heading out.

The “...” appears and disappears on the screen four times before a simple “drive safe” appears from Alec.

Followed by “Don’t be strangers” from Ellie.

Crowley makes his promises to both and sticks his phone in his jacket before pulling out and starting the journey home. As they pull out onto the highway, Crowley can’t help but feel a longing for what he’s leaving in the rear view mirror. He and Alec still have so much unsaid between them, and yet, just having his number stored in his phone makes him feel more complete in a way he hadn’t even known had been missing.

He’s smiling softly to himself when his phone starts ringing. Aziraphale reaches over to pull it from his pocket. “Unknown number,” he says before ignoring the call and dropping it on the dash. A second later it rings again. Same number. Aziraphale holds the phone out in question.

“Answer it,” decides Crowley, so Aziraphale puts it on speakerphone.

“Hello?” says Crowley, voice projecting to be picked up by the phone’s speakers.

There’s a brief pause on the other end of the line, and then “Oh hello! I wasn’t sure if you would answer! I’m Daisy! Uh, Daisy Hardy. My dad said not to bother you, but I had to know you were real.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, yes, the Station Kitchen is a real restaurant. It's in West Bay (Dorset), and Aziraphale would absolutely love everything on the starters menu. that's a fact.
> 
> Second, this story is officially "over", but the larger story is not. If you're interested in tagging along for the ride, I have ideas for at least three more stories in this verse. Some will be longer and angsty-er than others, but I want to continue to explore both their future as well as a lot more of their past (especially Crowley's), and I want to write a lot more of Daisy, so...
> 
> Third, no one has (of yet) guessed the twin's middle name. But that's okay, we'll learn that in one of the sequels. (Not that it's a pressing mystery).
> 
> Fourth, You're welcome to follow me on Twitter (whtbout2ndbrkfs) or Tumblr (whtbout2ndbrkfst) but I can't promise that I talk all that much about Good Omens or Broadchurch.
> 
> I think that's all. Peace and Love to you all. XXX


End file.
